An Earthly Knight

by Janet Mcnaughton

  When news of Eudo was exhausted, the Vicomte said, “Tell us, Father, how does building proceed at the abbey?”

  Abbey-dwellers were always happy to talk about the endless construction that surrounded them. Brother Bertrand smiled. “Work on the new chapterhouse is progressing nicely. It should be finished in ten years, perhaps eight if God favours us. And that will be good, because the huts that have housed the brothers were not made to last as long as they have. One blew over in a storm last winter. You may have heard.” Jenny’s father nodded and Brother Bertrand continued. “So this summer there must be new huts, which takes time away from the building of the chapterhouse. Of course the huts are quickly built, and our masons are not distracted by such insignificant work. They continue their carving all the same. But the hauling of stone from the quarry will suffer. We are delighted with the church, though. Earthly comforts pale in comparison. Twenty-two years it took to complete, but it has proven worth the wait.”

  “Twenty-two years, or a thousand, are but a day in the eyes of Our Lord.” Brother Turgis spoke for the first time. “The abbey may take centuries to complete.”

  “Yes, certainly, Brother Turgis,” Brother Bertrand said, but somewhat impatiently.

  Jenny looked down quickly to hide a smile. Brother Turgis had a habit of saying things everyone already knew as if he were revealing profound truths. Jenny was pleased to see she was not the only one who found this annoying.

  When the first course came, most were served from huge bowls of pease pottage with bacon, but the two canons were given a pottage of fresh spinach and almond milk. Jenny watched anxiously. Brother Turgis would likely eat hay without noticing, but Brother Bertrand would know good food. His bowl went untouched, though. Brother Bertrand had other matters on his mind.

  “Sir Philippe,” he said, “‘I also bring you greetings from the Earl of Roxburg.”

  The vicomte’s spoon paused midway to his mouth. The Earl of Roxburg was one of the most important men in Scotland. His hall was one of a few that regularly housed the royal court. Brother Bertrand continued. “As you may know, the earl has a grandson, a young man called Tam Lin. I believe he was born not far from here.”

  Brother Bertrand must have heard the whole story. He is giving my father a chance to tell his side, Jenny thought.

  “Indeed, Father,” Vicomte Avenel replied, putting down his spoon. “My land once belonged to Andrew Lin, the earl’s son-in-law. When he died, the earl took the orphaned lad. The Battle of the Standard came not a year later. I was a young knight in the household of King David in those days and fought in the cavalry, beside Earl Henry, God rest his soul.” He paused for a moment to show his sorrow, heartfelt, Jenny knew, for Earl Henry, King David’s only son, who had died not a year before he would have been crowned. “Not to speak ill of our young ruler, Father, but the grave robbed us of a great king when Earl Henry was taken.”

  Brother Bertrand did not contradict him. King Malcolm, Earl Henry’s son, was only twelve when he came to the throne eight years ago. He was known as Malcolm the Maiden for his vow to remain unmarried. Earl Henry had been raised all his life to be king. He would have been a good and wise ruler, like his father, King David, but an untried lad had been crowned in his place.

  Jenny’s father took up his story again. “It was felt that I had distinguished myself in the Battle of the Standard.” Jenny smiled at her father’s unaccustomed modesty. In other company, the story of the battle could last for hours. “And these lands, being without a lord, were bestowed by the king upon me.” He puffed himself up a little. “I have no overlord, you see, but the king himself.” It was a point of pride for him not to be enfifed, as most small landowners were, to a greater earl or baron, although an overlord might have provided him with more social connections.

  Jenny noticed the music had stopped. When she glanced over, she was surprised to see the harper listening intently to their conversation. She frowned, and he began to play again with a small nod of apology. Such rudeness seemed out of character with the man she had met earlier.

  “Perhaps you know Tam Lin may now be on your land, Sir Philippe,” Brother Bertrand said. “The Earl of Roxburg dearly loves his grandson, who is perhaps not sound of mind.” He did not elaborate, trusting that the gossip would be known. “The earl knows this land belongs to you. There is no question of claiming the Lin birthright. Roxburg hopes his grandson will soon tire of living in the forest and return home. He begs you to show the lad kindness.”

  The vicomte sat straighter in his chair. “Please tell the earl his grandson will come to no harm by my men. I swear.”

  Jenny saw how flattered her father was to be begged a favour by a great man. She knew the promise would be honoured. She was glad to know no one would support Tam Lin if he tried to claim Carter Hall, but this promise would surely prolong his stay on her father’s land. Carter Hall was hers. She wished him away.

  Brother Bertrand finally tasted his pottage. “This is excellent fare, my lady.”

  “Thank you, Father,” she said. Her relief must have shown in her smile.

  “Your daughter takes care with your table, Vicomte,” Brother Bertrand said. Only Jenny noticed him wince a little as he tasted the wine.

  “My daughter just lately assumed these responsibilities, but she has taken pains to see that you are well cared for this evening.” Her father smiled at her.

  “And what age have you now, my child?” Brother Bertrand asked, slipping out of the formal style of a courtier into the more comfortable manner of a priest.

  “I am sixteen, Father.”

  “A grown woman, and so pretty.”

  Jenny blushed. The frank compliments of the Normans always unsettled her. The same words would sound blunt in the mouth of a Scot, but Brother Bertrand was the soul of decorum. “I am amazed she still graces your table, sir,” he continued. “Has no one spoken for her hand?”

  The vicomte looked uncomfortable. “I thought to make a match for her sister, Lady Isabel, first and then . . .” He paused awkwardly.

  “And then this unfortunate matter of the dangerous suitor.” Brother Bertrand had introduced the topic no one else dared mention. His tact left Jenny amazed.

  Her father looked unhappy, but relieved rather than upset.

  “Yes,” he said, his voice low.

  Jenny glanced around quickly. Brother Turgis appeared to be the only listener, and the harper’s music provided cover.

  Brother Bertrand lowered his voice as well.

  “This matter concerns us greatly, Sir Philippe. I bring you words from the abbot himself. But let us say nothing of this now. Tomorrow morning after Mass will be time enough.” He raised his voice again, including everyone. “Tonight, we must savour your good daughter’s efforts to make us happy.” He raised his cup to Jenny with a smile, but, she noticed, barely sipped the wine.

  So the crippled boy was not the only reason for the almoner’s visit, as she had suspected. Jenny could understand why the abbot and the Earl of Roxburg had trusted Brother Bertrand. In just a few minutes, he had raised two very difficult problems, settling one while flattering her father. Brother Bertrand would certainly rise within the Church. Such a man might even be abbot one day.

  “Have you heard of the healings at the holy well of Broomfield Abbey?” Brother Bertrand steered the conversation to safer ground. “I find it difficult to learn of these local saints. The land seems full of them, but they come to us from the Irish Church, not Rome, so we learn nothing of them in our teachings. Do you know anything about the saint of this well?”

  Her father shook his head, so Jenny spoke. “The well belongs to Saint Coninia, Father. She was one of the first heathens in this land to be converted to Christianity. She was a noble woman and led many to the Faith by her example.” Jenny smiled. Galiene’s endless storytelling was sometimes useful.

  “So she is a saint for her good example?”

  “There’s more to her story, Father. The folk say that the well at Broo
mfield belonged to the Devil until Saint Coninia cast him out.”

  “Then the land around Broomfield has been holy for centuries. That would explain why the Cistercian brothers chose Broomfield for their abbey. Holy ground is always auspicious.”

  “That,” Brother Turgis said, “and the fact that Broomfield is without settlement. The Cistercians like a wooded glade by a river, where they can withdraw from the world.” He sighed, and Jenny wondered why he had not joined the Cistercians himself. Their cloistered life seemed more suited to his nature than the ways of the outgoing Augustinians.

  “The place is not so quiet of late,” Brother Bertrand said, “for the well is now said to have miraculous healing powers, and pilgrims come clamouring to Broomfield Abbey. The brothers must provide food and shelter for charity, no matter how many come to disturb their peace.” For an almoner, Brother Bertrand’s smile seemed almost uncharitable. Jenny remembered hearing of a rivalry between the two abbeys.

  At the end of the meal, after dried fruit and wafers and cheese, the crippled boy was brought to the hall. Jenny had made sure that the servants’ portions were especially generous tonight so none of the abbey servants could carry tales of stinginess back to Rowanwald, but the boy looked so thin and pale, she wondered if Hawise or Galiene had taken care to see that he ate.

  “Tell the lord your name, child,” Brother Bertrand gently prompted.

  “I am Alric, called the Reed, my lord,” the boy said. His accent was strange, but his voice was surprisingly clear and bold. He looked to be about twelve.

  The vicomte smiled. Jenny knew that spirit pleased her father better than servility. “Well, Alric-the-Reed, are you here to pledge your oath to me?”

  “Yes, my lord,” the boy said, and he plunged on without hesitation. “Food and clothing both for my back and for my bed, and shoes, thou shalt procure me, and all that I possess shall remain in thy power.” Someone at the abbey had taken trouble to prepare him.

  Jenny’s father laughed and slapped his knee.

  “Well spoken, Alric-the-Reed. What possessions you have, I cannot guess, but I accept you as my bondsman. Come, place your hand in mine.” The boy limped forward. “From this day forth,” the vicomte said, “you are mine. Take, as a token of our bond, these possessions.” A servant’ placed a bundle in his hands. Jenny knew it contained a wool jerkin, the blanket she had finished that afternoon, a small knife and a few other trifles. The boy ran his fingers over the blanket, plainly pleased to see it was new.

  The vicomte noticed. “Mind you care for that blanket, boy. My daughter, the Lady Jeanette, wove it with her own hands.”

  Jenny was not surprised that her father would make her gift a matter of public record. The Normans loved to boast of any charity, however small. She smiled at the boy, who seemed awed for the first time.

  “Thank you, my lady,” he stammered before a servant led him from the hall.

  “So you wove the boy a blanket,” Brother Bertrand said. “That was generous, my lady.”

  Jenny could not lie. “My weaving is nothing to be proud of, Father. The boy may wish for better come winter.”

  “Modest as well as beautiful.” Again, that Norman flattery confounded Jenny. If any other man had spoken to her in that way, she would have blushed with shame. Yet she could see Brother Bertrand only meant to be kind.

  Jenny felt sure her father was about to launch into a story. Afraid he might tell Brother Bertrand about Queen Maud and the lepers, she quickly jumped in. “How is it that the boy comes to us, Father? He is welcome, as you have seen, and perhaps I am too bold . . .”

  “Not at all, my child. Curiosity is a virtue.”

  “In its place.” Brother Turgis sounded scandalized.

  “Yes, of course, Brother Turgis,” Brother Bertrand said with barely concealed annoyance. “We thought it best to remove the boy from the abbey. His master is most bitter about the injury. He feels he lost what money he spent on the boy’s apprenticeship. He is a bitter man by nature, and violent when in his cups, which is often. A most profane man. We would dismiss him if masons were plenty, but they are not. Indeed, we feel the boy’s loss ourselves. He held great promise.

  “Now, it is late for both Brother Turgis and myself to be abroad, and we still have many matters to discuss,” Brother Bertrand said. “We will see you in the family chapel in the morning, and after breakfast, meet in your private chamber. Come, Brother.”

  “May the Lord keep you from the terrors of the night,” Brother Turgis said, his customary blessing. Jenny wondered how these two men could call themselves brothers.

  Everyone rose as a sign of respect until the canons left the hall. Jenny could see that the mention of tomorrow’s discussion troubled her father. It unsettled her as well.

  “Harper,” she said quickly, “pray, give us a song.”

  Cospatric smiled. “I will sing you a song of the Battle of the Standard, my lord.” The lines of worry vanished from Vicomte Avenel’s face, and Jenny silently forgave the man for eavesdropping earlier.

  Cospatric’s voice was more than pleasant, low and true. His song was so long and detailed, it could only have been made by someone who had witnessed the battle himself. The bravery and skill of the Scots was stressed, the fact that the English had won the battle was delicately glossed over. Everyone seemed transported to the battlefield. When he sang of the cry that went up from the Scots saying King David was dead, and how the old king had torn off his helmet to show his face, regardless of the danger, cheers went up from the listeners. There was even a verse about Earl Henry’s cavalry, how they were surrounded by the English and, at the earl’s command, threw down their colours and mingled with the enemy, so that most made their way back to safety. This was Vicomte Avenel’s own moment of glory. When Cospatric’s harp finally fell silent, her father looked happier than Jenny could remember for weeks.

  “Well sung, harper!” he cried. ‘“I have never heard that song. Where did you learn it?”

  “Indeed, my lord, it is my own. For I was at the Battle of the Standard, as you were that day.”

  “This cannot be. You are too young.”

  “I was, my lord, no older than that crippled lad who pledged his oath to you this night, but I was there. Do you not remember how the Galwegians brought poets and musicians into battle with them? It is the Irish custom, and our own as well.”

  “I do. And I recall the strange garb they wore, so like the dress of women that one poor old chronicler thought the young lads were dancing girls.”

  Cospatric allowed the laughter to die away before he answered. “The kilt is honoured in most of the kingdoms of Scotland, my lord, even if it seems strange here in borderlands. We were proud to wear it that day.”

  “And many of your men gave their lives on Cowton Moor. They fought bravely on foot against mounted Norman knights, with spears of wood against good Norman steel, and they did not falter even as they fell. If we came from different lands and spoke different tongues, we were all Scots together on that day.

  “The hour is late and we should take our rest, but you are welcome in my hall, harper. Most welcome. Stay as long as you choose.” He left the hall smiling, and Jenny, behind him, smiled as well. The harper had won his way into her father’s household without her help. The battle he had shared with her father, those many years ago, might help her in her battle to win her sister back again.

  Chapter Four

  The next morning, grey river mist shrouded the bailey as Jenny entered the small chapel with her father to hear the daily Mass. Most of the household followed, but Isabel had refused. Their father’s roaring still echoed in Jenny’s ears, but her sister would not be moved. She seemed determined to make things as difficult for herself as possible.

  Jenny tried not to think ahead to what might happen after breakfast. Instead, she wondered what Brother Bertrand would think of the chapel. It was almost a shed, small and dark, made of woven wooden wattle coated with peat and clay, the poorest kind of structu
re. Even the stable was a better building. Jenny’s father always said he would build a stone chapel if the abbeys would only let their masons work for others. There was no danger of this, of course. Jenny knew it was only a ploy to save her father’s pride, for he could never afford to house and feed the masons and the larger crew of workers needed to quarry and transport the stone.

  Jenny was happy to see Brother Bertrand before the altar. He brought a gracious touch to the humble chapel that was unknown in Brother Turgis’s blunt services. Brother Bertrand’s voice was soft and musical, and, although Jenny could not understand it, every word of the Latin service was clearly audible. Her father noticed too, and he complimented the priest after breakfast as they walked to the family bower.

  Brother Bertrand’s smile was almost mischievous as he replied. “When I was a novice, we were taught to say our services with care. The novice master told us that the Father of Evil commissioned a special little devil, Tittivillus by name, with the task of gathering all the holy syllables carelessly dropped in our services. He then carried them back to Hell. Indeed, some novices even saw this fiend lurking about the abbey with a great poke around his neck for the gathering of our carelessly mumbled words.”

  “Brother Bertrand, why do you smile?” Brother Turgis said. “The world is thick with angels and devils. I saw that evil fiend myself when I was a novice.”

  “Just so, Brother Turgis. The thought of such a harmless devil is amusing, but of course he is real. The world is full of things unseen.“

  Then why not fairies? Jenny thought, but, for once, she held her tongue. This was not the time for such talk. Brother Bertrand carried a roll of parchment in his hand that must have held the abbot’s judgment for Isabel. Before they entered the bower, he had stopped smiling.

  Isabel sat on a stool, her head bent as if she had already heard the harsh words that must certainly fall on her now. When Brother Bertrand saw her, he frowned. “Bring me a table and a stool,” he said to Galiene, “Then leave us, woman. The abbot’s words are for the family alone.” Galiene obeyed without a peep. The stern officer of the Church who unrolled the parchment seemed a different man from the gracious courtier Jenny had met the night before.